“I told you, I’m not going to talk about it.” Because the things that Sunday had told her were private, shared in moments of stress and heartache, spoken in the darkest hours of the night when it had just been the two of them wandering the farm sleepless.
Clementine because of bills and Sim and a dozen regrets.
Sunday because Matt had been finding excitement away from the house and the kids she loved so much. Late nights at bars far enough away from town that no one but Sunday knew, business trips that were mostly pleasure. A midlife crisis in his late twenties, and Sunday had been terrified she’d lost him for good.
But that was her story to tell. Not Clementine’s, and tarnishing Matt’s image without a really good reason for it wasn’t something she planned to do.
“He was my brother. I have a right to know.”
“He was your brother. Maybe you should have asked before he died,” she responded, the words sharper and colder than she’d intended.
“I’m sorry. That didn’t come out the way I meant it,” she offered hurriedly.
“What way did you mean it?” he responded, his expression hard, his eyes deep pewter. Not a hint of blue in them. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounded like a pretty harsh recrimination of my relationship with Matt.”
“No recrimination or judgment. I have no idea what your relationship was like, and even if I did, I’d have no right to speak about it.”
“He bought a Corvette,” he said, ignoring her comment, his expression still hard and cold. “Did you know that?”
“Yes,” she replied, her mouth cottony, her pulse racing, because he didn’t look like the man she knew, the guy who smiled easily and spoke warmly.
He looked like a bodyguard or a hit man.
A valuable ally or a dangerous foe.
He looked like a stranger capable of anything, and he looked like someone she might want to get to know.
Her inability to see the truth of who he was terrified her. She’d already been fooled before, tricked by a man who’d pretended to be what she’d wanted. She’d spent ten years pretending with him while he’d lied and cheated and spent money they didn’t have on things they didn’t need.
She never wanted to live that way again, faking happiness for the sake of broken vows and dead dreams.
She backed up, her hips banging into the counter, her heart thumping painfully. If she ever fell again, it would be for someone like Porter.
Like him?
It would be him.
And she couldn’t risk that. Not when she was starting over, beginning again, wiping the slate clean and reinventing herself. She didn’t have ten more years to lose on another dead-end relationship.
She sidled toward the back door, because being outside in the rain seemed a whole lot safer than being alone in the house with a guy whose kiss could melt the ice around her heart.
She’d walk outside, meander through the newly plowed fields, inhale the scent of freshly turned earth, remind herself of how good it felt to be home. Even if home meant being alone.
It was a good plan. A great one.
But Porter’s face changed, the coldness seeping away, his eyes tracking her hand as she reached for the doorknob.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“Scaring you.”
“You didn’t,” she responded. “I scared myself.”
“Into running out into the rain?” he asked, his lips curving in a half smile.
She couldn’t resist his smile.
She couldn’t resist him, and she stayed where she was instead of going outside. Which was a mistake. She knew. One she would probably regret.
“I wasn’t running,” she pointed out.
“You were thinking about it,” he said, moving into her space but giving her plenty of room to step away.
She didn’t.
Another mistake, because he set his hands on her waist, his fingers splayed against her back, and she forgot why she was afraid, forgot what she should be afraid of.
Not this—the thrumming desire that raced through her blood, the easy way her body fit against his.
“I was,” she admitted, her voice husky with longing, her hands finding their way to his forearms and sliding up to his shoulders. “But I suddenly can’t remember why.”
“You said you scared yourself,” he murmured, his lips touching her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “I’m still curious to know how.”
“It was nothing important.”
“When it comes to you, everything is important to me.”
“Did you practice that line, Porter? Because it’s probably one of the most perfect things anyone has ever said to me.”
“A person doesn’t have to practice speaking the truth. Now, how about you tell me about the not-so-important thing that almost scared you out into the rain?” His hands slid up her back and then down, his palms settling at the hollow of her spine.
“I don’t want to be hurt again,” she said honestly, looking into his eyes and knowing he was going to break her heart.
How could he not?
He had a job in LA and six kids to care for here.
She had a wonderful life waiting for her in Seattle. One she’d given up before and wasn’t going to give up again.
They were star-crossed lovers. Destined to meet and then say good-bye. There could be no other ending to the story. At least, not one that she could see.
“Why are you assuming that you will be?” he asked.
“Not assuming. Imagining. Thinking about how it would feel to spend ten years with you and then find out that all the dreams we built together were a lie.”
“Was that what happened with Sim?” he asked, his expression unreadable, his eyes the dusky shade of the river at twilight. “You were building dreams and he was pretending to?”
“Something like that.”
“He isn’t every man. You know that, right?”
“He’s the man I chose. What does that say about me?”
“That you want what most people do. To be accepted and valued and to have your faith in others justified.” His words were like the rhythmic echo of the tribal drum, summoning her to that place called home.
And she went, because how could she not?
He was the deep fertile soil and the crackling wood, the warm summer breeze and the first winter snow. She could taste them all in his kiss, feel them in his hands as they trailed up her spine, tangled in her hair.
A million moments like this would never be enough.
A million dreams could never compare to being in his arms.
And she was terrified that he’d break her heart and shatter her soul while he was doing it, afraid of what would happen when they finally said good-bye.
“You’re crying,” he murmured against her lips, and she could taste the briny tears she hadn’t realized were falling, the bitter remnants of dreams that would never come true.
“Saying hello is always easy,” she said, pulling away because she’d been a fool before, and she never wanted to be one again. “It’s saying good-bye that leaves the scars.”
“Who says we have to say good-bye?”
“Me. You. Our lives. We’re on different trajectories, walking totally different paths. Let’s not pretend that we don’t see how the story is going to end,” she said, turning away and grabbing the teapot because she needed to do something with her hands.
Something besides pulling him back into her arms.
“You’re the storyteller, Clementine,” he responded, his tone gruff, eyes flashing with something that looked a lot like anger. “Maybe you should explain how this one goes.”
“Girl winds up in a small town with a hell of a lot of dead dreams. Girl meets boy. It’s the wrong place and the wrong time. The end.” She filled the pot with water, set it on the stove, her hand shaking, her nose suddenly filled with the noxious scent of cigarettes and cologne.
“Or, ma
ybe all the dead dreams are just a bridge to better ones. Maybe the place and the time are exactly what they’re supposed to be for hellos to happen without good-byes. But we’ll never know how it really goes, will we? Because you’ve already spoken that sad-ass story to your heart. Your head isn’t going to believe in anything else.”
“Porter, you know I’m right. You have a job in LA and six kids who are counting on you. I have a life that isn’t here.”
“What I know is that those are excuses for letting your fear decide your fate. And that’s something only a coward would do. I need to get back to the house. See you around, Clementine.” He walked to the back door and yanked it open.
“What the hell?!” he growled, because Sim was there. On the stoop. A cigarette dangling from his lips, a key in his hand, his eyes wide with shock.
“Clementine! What are you doing here?”
“It’s my place. Where else would I be?”
“I heard you were staying at the hospital tonight,” he mumbled, the cigarette falling to the ground.
“So you thought you’d visit me here?” she asked.
“You know, now that you mention it, it probably wasn’t one of my better ideas. I’ll come back another time,” he replied, jumping off the stoop and racing away.
“Stay here and call the sheriff,” Porter commanded, and then he was gone, too, sprinting into the gray-black night.
It wasn’t going to be a fair footrace.
Sim was in about as good a shape as the old, fat tabby she’d had as a kid, and Porter was . . .
She watched as he sprinted after her ex, his legs and arms muscular, his pace quick and easy.
He was a prime example of fit masculinity.
“Don’t hurt him!” she yelled. “It would suck to go to jail for someone who smells like cheap cologne!”
* * *
Porter wasn’t planning to hurt Sim, but the idiot seemed to be determined to hurt himself. He ran pell-mell down a steep hill, tumbling into a muddy culvert that was probably filled with rocks.
“Slow down, man!” Porter called, not because he couldn’t catch the guy, but because he didn’t want him to break his neck before the sheriff arrived.
“Leave me alone!” Sim replied as he jumped up and kept going. He sounded like a whiny kid on a school playground—the bully who’d finally picked the wrong student to mess with.
“That would be a hell of a lot easier if you’d do Clementine the same favor,” he replied, jumping over the culvert Sim had fallen into and following him up the other side.
There was a grassy field at the top, a barbed-wire fence a hundred yards straight ahead. Sim was running toward it. Porter could hear him puffing like a steam engine from twenty yards back.
“You should probably stop before you have a heart attack,” he called, but Sim kept going full-throttle. Or as close as he could get to it while limping and panting.
Gentle spring rain was still falling, the ground muddy and slick. Sim slipped, slid, and then fell. He was up about a second later, limping toward the fence and a sporty little car that was parked on the other side of it.
“I hope you don’t think you’re going to jump over the fence,” Porter called, because a guy who couldn’t run a tenth of a mile wasn’t going to hurtle over a five-foot fence with ease.
Sim growled.
At least, Porter thought he did.
Then he backed up a step, gathered himself up, and ran straight for the glistening metal barbs.
Maybe he thought he’d soar over it.
Whatever he thought, it didn’t happen.
Instead of soaring, he flopped, landing on barbs that caught in his clothes and held him dangling a foot above the ground.
“Help!” he screamed. “Help me!”
“I’ll probably have to cut the fence to get you down,” Porter responded, pulling his utility knife out and approaching the struggling man.
“The fence or me?” Sim asked, his legs on one side of the barbed-wire, his head on the other. He looked like an understuffed scarecrow, tossed by the gentlest wind. “Because she’s not worth going to jail for murder over.”
“Who?”
“Clementine. She’s boring. Unimpressive. Uninspiring.”
“And smart enough to divorce your lazy ass,” Clementine said, stepping up beside Porter. “The sheriff will be here any minute, Porter. Let’s go back to the house and wait for him there.”
“What about me?” Sim asked, not even trying to free himself.
“The sheriff can get you down,” she responded.
“You’re not serious, Clementine,” Sim said. “You wouldn’t leave me hanging here.”
“You mean like you left me hanging with thousands of dollars of debts and an empty bank account? Sure, I would.” She started walking away, her rain-soaked sweater clinging to her gorgeous curves, her skin shimmering with falling rain.
She looked like a goddess, and she tasted like sunshine.
Raindrops.
Fresh air.
Joy.
Porter knew that.
Just like he knew he could love her.
Hell, he probably already did, but he wasn’t going to fight for something she didn’t want to give. He wasn’t going to manipulate her feelings, he wasn’t going to be the kind of guy who forced his way into a woman’s heart and broke it.
He frowned, turning away from her, from all the things he saw when he looked into her eyes.
“Clementine!” Sim yelled. “I made a mistake. I was an idiot. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t think she’s listening,” he said, testing the weight of the wire fencing. It was thick and sturdy, pulled tight along the vertical posts. He wasn’t going to be able to cut through it.
He walked to the closest wood post, shaking it to see if he could easily push it down.
“Ow!” Sim screamed. “I’m being impaled in the heart!”
“If only the world could be so lucky,” Clementine said, walking back across the field, a wire cutter in her hands.
“You don’t mean that,” Sim said. “We loved each other for ten years. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to me.”
“I loved you for ten years. You loved yourself.” She lifted the wire cutters, setting the mouth right near Sim’s dangling head. “And I really couldn’t care less if something happened to you.”
“Baby, please. You don’t understand. I did all of this for you.”
“Did what for me? Steal my money? Run off with another woman? Get yourself hung up in the chicken yard fence?”
“The money was ours. I didn’t steal it. I took it with me when I left town. To protect it, because the economy here stinks.”
“To spend it on your twenty-three-year-old lover. Yeah. You’re right. I can see how that could be construed as a selfless act of love toward me.”
Porter laughed.
Sim didn’t seem as amused. “You’ve misunderstood this whole situation. That’s why I came back. To explain things.”
“What things?”
“I didn’t run off with anyone. I went to Thailand to make some investments. Great investments, and they’re going to pay off big. I just need a little more cash.” Sim was talking fast, his eyes on the sharp edge of the wire cutter that was very, very close to his face.
“I’m fresh out of cash and patience,” Clementine said. “So, how about you tell me exactly why you were on my back stoop tonight?”
“You have the ring. I thought it was only fair that it be returned to me,” Sim responded, obviously not realizing how precarious his situation was.
Porter could have told him to shut up while he was ahead, but he didn’t want to ruin the show.
“What ring?” Clementine asked, as if she didn’t know.
“The engagement ring. It’s worth tens of thousands of dollars, and really, it belongs to me. To my family anyway. I tried to retrieve it before I went to Thailand, but my name isn’t on the safe deposit box. I was really hurt by that, Clement
ine. Deeply wounded that you didn’t trust me.”
“I think her decision was well-founded, considering that you went to the bank to try to steal the ring,” Porter said.
“Steal?! It’s my ring. My family’s ring, so I should have had access to it. I planned to sell it and give Clementine half what I got for it. I swear.”
“Your word means nothing.”
“Clementine! How can you say such a thing?”
“Experience. You swore you’d love me forever. You swore that we’d always have each other’s backs. You didn’t follow through on either of those things.”
“I do love you. I will always love you.”
“Stop!” Clementine snapped. “I don’t want to hear it, and as far as the ring goes, you gave it to me. You told me it wasn’t nearly good enough for a woman of my beauty, but it was all you had. You hoped that I would keep it forever, and that every time I looked at it, I’d remember that it paled in comparison to your love for me.”
“Geez,” Porter said.
“I know,” Clementine sighed.
“I still love you. With all my heart. And the ring still symbolizes those things. I just need to borrow it for a while. I’ll return it. After I secure our future.”
“Your future, you mean. We’re not married anymore.”
“That breaks my heart every minute of every day.”
“God,” Clementine responded. “I can’t believe I married you.”
“There’s no need to be harsh. If you don’t want me around, I’ll leave. After I get the ring. I’m sure you’ll agree that it should be returned to my mother’s collection.”
“I do, but since your mother didn’t want it returned, I’m going to keep it.”
“My mother? What does she have to do with it?”
“I called her after the divorce was finalized and offered to return it. She said she’d rather I keep it. I guess she has a son who likes to pilfer her best pieces of jewelry and pawn them.”
“She only has one son.”
“I know.”
“And I’ve never pawned anything of hers.”
“That’s not the story she told me.”
“She’s senile, and you’re being unreasonable. I hate to do it, but if you force my hand, I’ll have to get a lawyer,” Sim threatened, apparently not realizing that he was still hanging upside down from a barbed-wire fence.
Home Again Page 14
